


pretend that i'm sleeping

by Anonymous



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Blood Drinking, M/M, Necrophilia, Unspecified Timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:42:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27550204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Angelus used to say, “I can see the life in your eyes.” Back then, he’d snap Spike’s neck for it, if only to demonstrate what he was looking for.Now he knows to keep them dull.
Relationships: Angel/Spike (BtVS)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22
Collections: Anonymous





	pretend that i'm sleeping

**Author's Note:**

> Be warned this is a necrophilia reenactment fic. No one's actually dead but someone is pretending to be a corpse for the other character to have sex with. I'm putting this warning here because in vampire fandoms we don't tend to take necrophilia tags very seriously. 
> 
> As a side note, I've been listening to the new Foster the People song "Under The Moon" the whole time I wrote this, so naturally the fic had to be named after it.
> 
> https://youtu.be/I4chuTbQMKQ
> 
> Please comment if you enjoyed. This is my first foray into this fandom.

“Wake up,” Angel whispers.

Still nothing. The plea in the warning sends a sharp thrill through Spike, but it’s centered brain-only, all other functions shutting down.  _ Just the way he likes them, _ his mind supplies darkly. It’s a strange state, like being underwater. You still hear, see, feel; only everything is far away enough to tolerate.

For a mortal it might have felt like a long time. Spike’s been playing this game forever, so the years seem like days. Angel’s threats are foreplay- never empty, he never hesitates to inflict promised pain. But all roads lead to Rome. 

Being a vampire is doing what’s expected of you. Maybe there’s a pang of longing, a pinprick of desire in the form of residual soul that makes you want to be good for a change. It’s not as if you truly entertain it for a moment, though. Not then. You revel in the havoc you wreak. You thrive on suffering; and the more it sickens the human mind, the more you’re compelled to do it. 

Spike sometimes feels jealous that his idea of havoc never quite reached the same levels as Angelus’. What could be worse than murder, torture, and rape? Angelus had found a way to mix them into one sordid, heinous act that was so addictive it tempted him even after his soul was restored. Spike never saw the appeal, until he saw it, unbidden, in action. 

That had been more than a century ago. 

He’s got the art of it down perfectly, decades of practice. There’s probably no one better, across time or space… living and animated, at least. 

Angel’s silent as he approaches, no sound of footsteps or the heavy, panicked, unnecessary breaths he’d managed to curtail. Spike’s gaze doesn’t move with him. That was always the most difficult part - keeping his eyes unseeing. Angelus used to say, “I can see the life in your eyes.” Back then, he’d snap Spike’s neck for it, if only to demonstrate what he was looking for.

Now he knows to keep them dull. 

Spike even manages to drop his body temperature. Vampire skin is chill, but right now, his is cold. When Angel touches his wrist and swallows, hard, his blood sings with pride.

Angel’s fingers trace over his shoulders, his chest, his stomach. He feels dizzy with arousal, but he works to ensure his body shows no signs of it. 

They've been through this ritual before. Angel disrobes and the weight of him is crushing - at times it's terrified him, but usually there's no greater comfort than the sensation of his ribs close to cracking.

Without preamble, Angel's fingers tangle themselves in Spike's hair, and he bites down into the pale flesh of his neck. Blood flows from the wound, pulsing out thin and viscous onto his tongue.

Spike stays motionless. 

Angel's hand snakes down to cup Spike's cock, soft and unresponsive. He makes a quiet noise of satisfaction, ragged and grateful, lapping the rest of the red wetness from Spike's neck, while his other hand closes around his own erection. 

"I haven't done this for- so long," Angel grits out. His mouth covers Spike's, the taste of copper not quite as rich as human blood. 

_I know you haven't,_ Spike thinks, keeping his mouth slack as feral teeth dig into his lips and a tongue finds its way halfway down his throat. He knows that Angel tries to be good, and he thinks it's pathetic. He thinks he was probably put on this earth to tempt Angel back to his true nature. 

He wants to move, to claw back and bite, but he knows he has to hold still for a little longer. The hand that was playing with his cock goes to pin one of his arms, and too rough, it snaps clean. 

Angel stops. "Fuck, I-" 

And then he realizes that Spike isn't moving, isn't reacting at all, despite how much it must hurt. The bone is already knitting itself back together, and Angel snarls, losing it, sinking his fangs into the meat of Spike's shoulder and tearing skin with it. 

He jerks himself off with rough, urgent strokes, a low rumbling growl building in the back of his throat as Spike's blood wets his teeth again. 

Spike stares at the crypt's stone ceiling, carved in shapes to take his mind off the pain. And then it's done. Angel's cry is muffled against Spike's shoulder, and he feels him come across his stomach, messy and warm and uncomfortably human. 

It takes frighteningly long moments before Spike feels like he's imitating any shadow of life again, forcing air into his lungs, forcing feeling into his skin. This is always the worst part. Coming back. 

"Spike," Angel whispers again, tinged with fear this time. 

Spike sighs. 

"Get off, you massive oaf, you're crushing me," he deadpans, even though he doesn't want to, even though he wishes they didn't have to move ever again. 

Angel draws back, taking his weight with him. He looks shaken, ruffled. 

"I didn't mean to do that to your arm," he says, stricken. 

Spike snorts. "Don't pretend you haven't done worse."

The atmosphere in the crypt turns suddenly colder than it was before, fraught with memories of violence and hatred. Spike's been trying to hate Angel for a long time. It doesn't work. 

“It’s not the same,” Angel shakes his head, gaze fixated on the cold stone ground. His shame is visceral and it tastes better than any human ever could. 

“It’s not every day you find someone willing to indulge your abhorrent fetishes. The least I’d expect is a ‘thank you’,” Spike drawls.

The other vampire winces. Still, he cups the back of Spike’s neck and kisses him roughly. “Thanks. For knowing me. But you don’t have to… I don’t…”

“Do you like it?” Spike asks.

Angel’s expression is baleful. Spike refrains from purring. 

“That’s not the point-”

“You miss it, though. And this is the only… ethical… way.”

“Ethical is not the word I would use…” 

Spike laughs, joyful, a little high on nerves after being still for so long. His wounds are already healing, but his whole body aches from the phantom pain. He loves it. He’d do this forever - a ragdoll, tossed around and broken, fucked until he’s bloody, a shell for Angel to cry and shake and rut against.

He thinks it shows on his face, because Angel goes very quiet, and touches Spike’s face. 

“I’m scared of going too far,” the vampire admits.

“You can’t kill what’s already dead,” Spike reminds him. 

At first, Angel is going to object, because the physical damage isn’t really the thing that concerns him. But then he realizes that Spike isn’t talking about himself. He’s talking about their relationship. He means that Angel couldn’t possibly do anything worse than what he’s already done. And that makes him hate himself just a little more.

He made Spike. But he also broke him, into someone who puts real time and effort into playing dead just so Angel can get his fix. That they’re supposed to hate each other, but Spike is doing  _ this, _ which is indicative of a poisonous, obsessive love, one that’s never going to end well.

“If we’re ever gonna do this, you’re gonna need to be a little more… animated.”

Spike makes a face, as if that crosses lines, like it’s okay to fuck with corpses and humans but vampires is too far. “Your head says no, but your cock-”

“Alright, Spike. Alright.” Angel fights hard not to smile, because there’s really nothing funny about how sick he is. Still is, even after he got his soul back, even after he stopped killing. No matter how good it feels, no matter how willingly it’s given, he needs to put a stop to it.

“What about Buffy?” Spike points out through gritted teeth; the eternal point of contention.

Angel tilts his head, regarding him for a moment, watching Spike try to stick around for a big boy conversation about feelings and not flounce off into a late grave. 

“You think you don’t have a piece of my heart, too?” he asks quietly. 

Spike looks away. Angel nudges him, and he isn’t prepared for the look he gets in return- so open, so childishly defiant, that centuries of killing and maiming couldn’t take away from his youth - and he leans in for a kiss, because he can’t stand to see what he’s done.


End file.
